Six Thousand Years in a Bar
by Sakiku
Summary: A chance meeting in a bar. An interesting discussion. Who will come out alive? Crossover Hellsing Highlander.


**Disclaimer**: Don't own nothing, no Hellsing, no Highlander. Don't make no money, so take your complaints elsewhere!

2008/07/05: REVISED

* * *

**Six Thousand Years in a Bar**

Shifting uneasily, Methos looked around inconspicuously if he was being followed. It was nearing the early morning hours, giving his eyes some trouble piercing the night. He was forced to rely more on his other senses to give him early warnings of danger. And for the past few blocks of this slightly run-down district of London, he had felt anxious and restless. Not quite the knowledge of someone watching him, but something darker, more unfathomable.

Weak street lights glowed dimly, utterly outmatched by the ever-famous English fog. They provided small islands of illumination in thick darkness. The heavy blanket of liquefied air smothered all senses indiscriminately; muted sounds, blurry blotches of lights and neon signs, chilled and clammy skin. The few people that he encountered seemed unreal; otherworldly creatures huddled in their coats and living in their own, isolated reality.

Walking a brisk pace, he berated himself for staying out so late. Any trouble that found him would be able to catch him alone with little forewarning. There were hardly any people around, and nobody in this neighborhood would call the police. Not that he would want to see the police after dealing with trouble.

But, to be honest, it wasn't entirely his fault he had to walk home so late. Well, at least the 'walking' part. While he had enjoyed a couple of beers in a pub, someone had decided it would be fun to smash his car. When the pub finally had closed (throwing him out in the process), he had discovered a ruined heap of scrap metal and broken glass where his Ford had once been.

After some creative comments on the unsavory genealogy of some London citizens, he had called the police to record the damage. This kind of police action was quite welcome to him; but not the sniffing, interfering one that was looking out for trouble. At least he would be able to get some money out of his insurance even if they probably never found the perpetrator.

After dealing with the police men, he had started on his way home.

Although the apartment he currently lived in was only ten blocks away, that idea certainly had not been amongst his better ones. For the past two blocks, he had been getting an increasingly uncomfortable feeling. At first, he had ignored it, but it was closing in.

An almost unnoticeable shrug of his shoulders assured him that he was still carrying his Ivanhoe, as well as the small .22 caliber in his shoulder holster. Additionally, he had a pepper spray in his coat pocket, two knives down his boots, and a spring-loaded sheath on his left forearm. More than once, Mac had teased him about his paranoia, but he had always responded that it was better to be too careful than not careful enough. And Methos had a bad feeling that he would be more than grateful for his foresight before the night was over.

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he had seen movement in the alley-way he had just passed, but a direct glance revealed nothing in the thick darkness that had closed around him. At least he was reasonably sure that it was no Immortal that was stalking him; he had picked up no signs of another Quickening.

Slowly, a gleaming purple light high above the pavement materialized in the dense fog. When he could read its message – Biddy Early's Pub – he was standing almost in front of the entrance that didn't look nearly as run-down as the rest of the neighborhood. To his surprise, it was still open despite the late (or early, depending on the view) hour.

Curiously, he inspected the sign because he had never taken notice of this taproom despite its proximity to his apartment. It was only three more blocks until he was home, but he didn't want to lead anyone towards where he lived. He decided that entering the pub would be the best solution.

When he opened the door and the noise spilled out, he realized how quiet it had been outside, the wet fog dampening all sounds until they were swallowed beneath the heavy atmosphere. Despite the low lighting, everything in there was almost preternaturally sharp compared to the blurry mist behind him. The heat rushing out to meet him was another incentive to step in, and he was looking at a small, surprisingly well-filled room.

The bar was surrounded by many customers on wooden stools and small tables a little bit further away. Almost every bar stool was taken, and at most of the tables two or three patrons were seated. Somewhere, there had to be speakers because moderately loud pop music mingled with hoarse laughter and raucous bawling. It smelled of alcohol and sweat, of polished wood, and a faint scent of smoke. All in all much cleaner than he had expected. No sticky beer stains on the floor, no smell of vomit in the air, no moldy spots in corners or on the ceiling.

He headed towards the only free stool that was facing the door. If anyone was following him, Methos would get a good glance if they came inside. And the men next to the free place seemed pretty much self-contained, so probably no harassment from them. He sat down and unbuttoned his coat, but didn't take it off to keep his weapons concealed.

Seeing the expectant look from the bar-tender, he ordered a beer, already preparing himself for the atrocity of a warm glass that was filled to the brim. If he could help it, he always drank his beer straight from the fridge with plenty of foam, but when in England… Once, several decades ago, he had asked for a cold beer, but he had left quickly after taking in the expressions of revulsion all around him. No, better to endure warm beer than no beer at all.

Looking around at the other patrons of the pub, he took in their various states of inebriety, and quickly decided that the guy sitting to his left was still one of the most sober ones despite his eccentric choice of clothing. From the door, he had only seen the combination of a long, blood-red coat and the matching hat, but up close, the stranger looked even more exotic.

Long black hair, a ruffled white shirt spilling across the collar, and a black vest with a red tie completed the outfit of Victorian gentleman. The only thing that did not fit with that image was the pair of yellowy-orange sunglasses placed next to a tall glass of Bloody Mary, or some equally red alcoholic drink (he doubted it was a strawberry margarita).

Despite the stares the man attracted, he seemed completely at ease, and Methos had to suppress a smirk at the casual slouch the other was sprawled in. Falling into a boneless sprawl of his own, he gestured towards the pair of sunglasses with his chin.

"Interesting fashion statement."

* * *

Alucard paid little attention to the tall, dark-haired man who had sat down next to him since the stranger was neither Ischariot nor Freak, ergo boring. Most humans were only good for a quick snack, and even that wasn't an option for him because of the seals restraining him. The only reason he was there at all was that Hellsing's stone walls were even more boring.

Hellsing's vermin extermination division had become a little bit too good for his tastes; if he saw action once a week he could count himself lucky. True, being allowed to go off into town when he wasn't needed was quite a bit better than being cooped up with an all-too-annoyingly-human Police Girl, or imprisoned behind heavy seals for who knows how long. However, that didn't change the fact that he was utterly bored. Nothing to work out his anger on for the past twelve days, not even a stray Ghoul or the odd Freak.

He was itching for a fight, or anything else to distract him for a while, but none of the inane conversations those pesky mortals were so irritatingly fond of. If he wanted to talk to someone, he would go and scare the Police Girl. Or drop into Integra's office for some fun. The seals binding him only tied him and his powers to her will and prohibited him from harming her in any way. Nowhere was it stated that he had to be nice to her or remold his personality to her every whim.

For a No-Life King such as himself, it was an easy feat to find loop-holes and weaknesses in his restraints.

In the beginning, when Abraham had just carved the seals into his flesh, he might have been bound completely, but over the years, he had – well, found ways around them. But, of course, it just wouldn't do to disappear without a word. He was much more interested in seeing his Master's reaction when she realized just how much freedom he had.

So he took every opportunity he could find to mock-test the limits of his leash. It always amused him to count how much time it took to rile her up until she shot him. His current record was at 13.2 seconds. That had been the night when she had finally allowed him to leave Hellsing premises when he wasn't needed.

Chuckling manically, he reached for his drink, only partially aware of the stranger next to him watching his every move with a half-lidded gaze. To think of the irony of mortals: Creating a drink with a name to entice any vampire, and then leaving out the key ingredient.

Taking another sip of his Bloody Mary, he saw the stranger's gaze wander towards his gloved hand and the black-inked sigil on its back. Raising an eyebrow, the stranger repeated: "Very interesting fashion statement, indeed. Where did you find that design? Haven't seen anything quite like it."

Few mortals dared interrupt his thoughts a second time; he assumed it was some deeply ingrained instinct to avoid predators, even if they weren't aware of it. Most of the time, his mere presence was enough to make mortals clam up like rabbits ensnared by a snake. However, this one didn't seem to be effected. Probably too dense for that, since modern 'civilization' was all for ignoring those baser instincts. How quaint. Perhaps he should give this specimen a lesson, or a show, or something…

He established full eye contact and let his eyes rake across a prominent nose, high cheekbones, and a sharp chin. The Caucasian was slouching as much as the bar stool allowed, but despite the concealing coat and formless clothing beneath, he assumed that the mortal would be considered quite good-looking by his species. All the more fun to screw around with.

Licking his lips slowly, he chuckled deeply. "A gift from my Master."

The human's eyes widened a fraction, an almost imperceptible intake of breath as the words sunk in. Then the corners of his mouth quirked upwards. The mortal still didn't move from his lazy sprawl, apparently not rebuffed enough to back down. "A nice change from the standard black collar, I must say. Most in those circles are rather hung-up on tradition."

Well, well, well. An adventurous one. What an opportunity! He had absolutely no interest in the little games humans played for procreation, but it always was a good method to bring about the most embarrassment. Letting a malicious smirk spread over his face, the vampire gave the mortal a smoldering once-over.

"Special people, special restraints. Any experience on your part?"

The human's half-lidded gaze grew even more lazy, although it stayed on the vampire's face and hands instead of wandering lower like most of those hormone-driven pretty-boys would have done. "Maybe a few stints on both sides of the equation."

Yes, an adventurous one. It was going to be fun to screw around with this mortal.

* * *

Methos studied the strangely clothed man from beneath lowered eyelids, trying to find out just what it was that made the fine hairs on his neck stand straight up. He was reasonably sure that their conversation which had turned to more or less obvious sexual contents, was anything but that. On the surface, Red-Coat seemed interested in getting some action for the night, but he couldn't help the impression that he was missing something pivotal.

Lowering his voice slightly, he took a long swallow of his beer, always keeping eye contact with Red-coat. "Your Master must be pretty strong-minded to keep someone like you 'restrained'."

If he had blinked he would have missed the brief flash of pure calculation that flared over Red-Coat's sharp features, enforcing his belief that something wasn't quite right.

The expression though was immediately replaced by a growing smirk that sent chills through his bones. "She has a way of getting what she wants."

At first, he was surprised that it was a woman. But thinking of Amanda and her stubbornness once she had set her mind on something, he laughed. "I know that kind of woman. Give her a hand, and she'll take an arm. I expect you are quite busy during the nights?"

Red-Coat's grin turned downright feral, and Methos had to exercise considerable restraint to keep his rapidly rising sense of dread from showing in his body language. It was highly unusual for a submissive to show such aggressive body language. Although Red-Coat's words fit quite well to his role, his actions didn't. The man had finally turned to Methos and leaned forward on his bar stool, exuding an aura of intimidation and danger. The way Red-Coat was crowding Methos' personal space definitely had nothing to do with submission. For once, Methos had to exert considerable restraint not to show any unease at the bodily contact of their knees.

The man's voice oozed the same predatorial grin as his facial features. "The last few weeks have been a little bit… low on action. Up until a few minutes ago, this night has been quite boring, too."

Methos was getting a serious case of signal confusion. From his own words, Red-Coat was submissive, but nothing else supported that fact. However; why would such a dominant character claim he had a Master? Unless…

No, those times were over, and nowadays, slavery just wasn't talked about that openly. Was Red-Coat just teasing him? What exactly was the game Red-Coat was playing? It certainly seemed familiar, like Methos had encountered it before. With his age, that was no wonder, but something was nagging at the edge of his mind; something he could not quite grasp. It felt like memories that had several warning bells attached.

Methos knew that he should quit now that he was still not too far into whatever he had gotten himself into. But he needed to know just _why_ there were those warning bells, for future references. It was just too dangerous to leave something like that behind without knowing how dangerous it could become.

Throwing a nonchalant glance towards Red-Coat, Methos continued playing the game despite his unease. "I agree. But your Master looks like the jealous type, with those gloves and all. May I have a closer look at them?"

* * *

Chuckling deeply in his throat, Alucard extended his arm along the bar towards the human. The mortal was quite entertaining, he had to admit, even if the human probably had no idea just how funny he was. And there were still no signs of fear in the mortal, although he made no move to touch Alucard's hand. The human bent over his glove, studying it from as many angles as possible, and had no idea that he could be dead with a slight twitch of the vampire's hand.

He was mumbling beneath his breath so low that even vampiric hearing could hardly make out any words above the noise in the pub.

"… Yiddish… runes… magic…"

Suddenly, the tension in the human rose sharply, and Alucard raised an eyebrow. Had the fool finally come to listen to his instincts?

From his bent position over Alucard's hand, the human turned his head to look into Alucard's face. An almost imperceptible widening of his eyes said that the mortal recognized something, but the following release of tension puzzled him. The human even had the gall to shake his head after a brief glance at the Bloody Mary.

Growling low in his throat, he barely refrained from flashing his teeth, and the human immediately looked back at the vampire, apologizing calmly.

"Sorry, I meant no offense. It's just that I didn't think I would meet one of your kind here."

Locking the mortal's gaze with his own, he narrowed his eyes. "One of my kind? I doubt you know what you are talking about."

"Oh, but I am quite certain I do. Although I have never seen such an interesting combination, I am somewhat familiar with Nordic runes and Yiddish sigil magic. Few nowadays believe in it, and even fewer would have the knowledge – and need – to combine them in such a way to such an exact purpose."

Pausing slightly, the human cocked his head sideways while his eyes took in Alucard's malevolent expression. "And now that I'm looking for it, you have some features that definitely are non-standard for humans. It's been a long time since I have seen a creature of the night as strong in the Dark Arts as you."

Who was that man? And how did he know about magic? Another Ischariot priest?

Staring at the suspiciously calm human, he finally broke out in a psychotic cackle that showed his elongated eyeteeth in their full glory. Mortals around him turned to stare, but the human right next to him didn't show an ounce of unease. More and more curious.

Stopping abruptly, he focused all of his burning stare on the mortal. "If you know enough to identify me as a 'creature of the night', you must also know what you are to one of my kind."

* * *

Methos nodded slowly, all the while cursing himself for bad luck. What in all seven layers of hell had made him chat up the only vampire in this god-forsaken pub? Well, at least he now knew why his alarm bells had been ringing…

Sometimes, he doubted his own common sense. He should have realized that Red-Coat wasn't human, but no, he had to ignore all the small warnings, from red eyes to an unnatural stillness to dark magic pounding against his Quickening. This one just reeked of power. A predator, even amongst predators.

Now that he knew what to look for, he was quite certain that his previous unease outside the bar had also come from some vampires hunting him. Had they been chasing him for their own pleasure, or to hound him into this pub towards the stronger vampire inside?

But if those sigils on the back of his glove were genuine, this vampire must be associated with the Hellsing line. Judging from his strength, Red-Coat must be a Master vampire, so who was capable of placing such restraints on a vampire with full control over the Dark Arts?

Most Hellsings he had known were suited for holding up such seals, but none were powerful enough to put them in place. They must have gotten help from _somewhere_.

But why? He had been under the impression that that they _exterminated_ such threats, not _chained_ them.

Leaning back deceptively relaxed, he shrugged nonchalantly. It would be fatal to show his unease now. At the moment, he had a slight advantage over the vampire because Methos knew exactly what he could expect from the vampire, but the vampire didn't quite know what to make of Methos. Thus the reminder that humans were food for them.

Methos subtly arranged himself in a position of complete ease, but passive as to not challenge the vampire's aggression more than he was already doing by his mere existence. "Sure, everyone needs at least some sustenance," he shrugged and decided to ask his questions now that the vampire was still unbalanced enough that he might answer. "But I thought your kind didn't like sharing?"

That drew a shark-like grin that became wider by the second. Not good, especially since Red-Coat was an old one, and very much capable of killing him – permanently. If those young upstarts outside were this one's lackeys, he was in seriously deep shit. They had definitely been singling him out. But even then, his chances at survival would have been better if he had never come inside this bar. At least those small fries outside would have had no idea of dark magic and could be delayed or even killed by decapitation. And he could have gotten away before Red-Coat became interested.

Red-Coat continued smirking at him. "There are some that do like to … share."

Methos' stomach took a dive to his knees. Either the Hellsings had given up their times as vampire hunters, or this one had gone rogue – which would be no surprise with that kind of power and cunning. But Methos had to be sure that Red-Coat wasn't just messing with him, so he pushed the question once more. "Then those outside are your fledglings?"

Within a split-second, the vampire's smirk twisted itself into a vicious snarl that accented his gaunt features. "What fledglings?"

Well, apparently not. Gradually, his stomach returned to its original position. Now, if he could play on the vampire's typical territorial behavior…

"Those that were hunting me before I slipped into this – establishment. There might even be a few ghouls with them. Does no one teach those youngsters how to avoid raising the dead?"

A sharp look crossed Red-Coat's features, which gave him a suitably predatory expression. "You know enough to dispatch of them yourself."

Methos shrugged once again, guessing that this was merely a wild guess on the vampire's part. Of course he could do it, but not without risking serious injury or a death or two. It had been years since he had had his weapons blessed, and the silver-coated blade he had once owned had been lost in the flow of time. Far too dangerous to take them on with this one watching, even as young as they were. Red-Coat just might have met other Immortals before, and a few Quickening sparks might give him all he needed to connect the dots. No, it would be far better being underestimated.

So he gave a non-committal answer that was vague enough to say nothing at all. "Knowledge without power is futile."

That one made the vampire chuckle once again, baring his teeth in amusement. Slowly, Methos began to get a feel for his personality. Except for his manic behavior, Red-Coat seemed to have his dark nature pretty much under control and only seemed interested in playing. Perhaps that could be accredited to the sigil that bound his powers, but from what he knew of rune and sigil magic, these restraints did not affect personality.

The one-million-dollar-question was how Hellsing had gotten their hands on such a powerful specimen of the very same race they despised. Oh, he was all for fighting fire with fire, but that was a little bit over the top in his opinion. Much too dangerous. What if Red-Coat finally broke free?

Still, as long as he got out of here considerably unharmed, that didn't concern him. So he had to play along and hope he could make a hasty exit somewhere down the line – and not step on the vampire's toes in the meantime.

"What makes you think I'd take care of them?", the vampire asked while leaning back with languor.

Methos had to smile slightly. Despite the wording, this question wasn't about whether Red-Coat would kill them or not. No, it was all about how much Methos was willing to offer for the vampire to do so right _now_, not after they had killed Methos first. Well, this was the downside to playing helpless. It would be quite out of character now to insist the vampire needn't involve himself.

What would be suitable payment?

Okay, that was a rhetorical question. But did he dare use his own blood as coin? If the vampire didn't know what he was, he could use it to gain some ground in their little power play. On the other hand, it revealed a lot about his secrets. But if he was careful and used all those centuries of experience with his Quickening…

Coming to a decision, Methos smiled seductively and reached for Red-Coat's drink. Red-Coat was watching him in amusement as he sipped some of the liquid. Methos' eyes almost gave away his surprise that a vampire would drink something as mundane as a regular Bloody Mary without any additional ingredients.

Licking the rim of the glass, he breathed huskily. "I could make it worth your while."

From the vampire's slightly sardonic expression, Methos was quite sure his ploy was working. Red-Coat was obviously assuming that Methos' offer consisted of blood and a little bit of sex, disgustingly normal to a vampire. That assumption would nicely unbalance him to give Methos the maximal advantage and distract the vampire long enough for him to escape.

Scooting back on his bar stool, Methos freed just enough room between his thighs to place the drink there. He was quite certain he had all of the vampire's attention by now, and nobody else could get a clear view of what he was doing.

Excellent.

A flick of his wrist triggered the spring-loaded sheath on his forearm, and the small dagger appeared in his hand. He took a moment to reign in his Quickening. Then, with a deft slice, he cut deeply into his right palm, letting the blood drip into the drink. As quickly as he had fetched the dagger, as quickly he vanished it again, and when his hand stopped bleeding, he slowly licked it clean.

Red-Coat had been watching all that with his feral smirk, blood-lust there but under control. He must have already fed tonight. Even better.

Handing back the glass, Methos smiled. "Careful. Might be a little bit stronger than your normal fare."

* * *

Alucard smirked. The little mortal was more than amusing. Did the human really think that he could buy a vampire's service with a little bit of blood and an invitation for sex? He couldn't quite decide whether that was courage or foolishness. Nonetheless, he raised the spiked drink – this time a real Bloody Mary to his amusement – and took a healthy swallow.

Only several centuries of experience kept his surprise to a frozen motion, but the human seemed to read him nonetheless, judging from the easy smile spreading on his features.

What the hell was that? Such a small amount of blood should not produce such a rich flavor, especially as diluted as it was here. It tasted of tingling electricity, of health that was perfect, and of an age he had never encountered before.

Over the centuries, he had realized that the taste of humans changed in accordance with the times. And every period had its typical flavor. Humans had changed together with their food, their homes, their society.

On top of that, blood carried a lot of information about what part of the world it came from – iron, iodine, calcium, magnesium, vitamins were different in poor and rich, country- or city-bred, African, Asian, or Caucasian. But this man fit neither. It was a bouquet he had never tasted before, in an intensity he had never imagined before.

And apparently, the mortal knew exactly what effect his blood had on vampires.

Finally, Alucard swallowed, the drink running down smoothly in a prickling sizzle. What would that blood taste like in its undiluted form? He sniffed the glass, careful of its contents now, and looked at the – human? – with narrowed eyes. Apparently, he had underestimated the mortal.

"Knowledge without power is worthless. But you never said anything about not having any power, did you?", he mused.

The mortal grew serious again, and nodded. "Indeed, I do have a few means of self-defense, but they are quite limited. I have learned to appreciate any help whatsoever since I am quite attached to life."

Even now, the mortal did not exude any fear, but a tightly controlled tension that was the first sign of unease on the mortal's part. Still, he had a feeling that the mortal was still not revealing everything. Take the unexplained scent of oiled steel and gun powder, for example. A very interesting specimen, indeed.

Alucard licked his lips appreciatively, not hesitating to flash a bit of fang in the process. "Say that I do help you. What would you pay me in exchange?"

Taking an appreciative sip of his newly spiked drink, Alucard was now prepared for the differences and savored the rich flavor. The mortal followed his every motion, smiling outwardly, but calculating inside.

"There is more where this came from."

Yes, there was more. But not necessarily blood only. Finally, Alucard bared his teeth in a smirk. "I can help myself to that without any problems, don't you think? Maybe you should try to convince me to leave you alone. Try again."

The mortal shook his head, not in the least unsettled. "You have tasted the differences? My kind is not healthy to you when I am unwilling. But I would throw in some information."

"Your kind?" He raised an eyebrow at that unexpected information.

The hard look from the mortal almost caught him off-guard. After several moments of incredibly tense silence, the mortal shrugged. "If I tell you will you get rid of them?"

Ah, so the mortal understood that the true coin of their trade was neither blood nor sex, but information. A rare thing. It remained to be seen just how well he could hold his position in a deal like that. This was an 'Eat or Be Eaten' world; equal powers were rare, especially on Alucard's level. But the mortal was playing surprisingly well, despite his seeming carelessness. Was that played as well?

He fixed the mortal with an appreciative leer. "Well, next to helping you with your problem, I'll need proper incentive not to let anything slip about you. I don't think you want some people to know about … your kind."

"I don't think you want your Master to know how far you can work around the seals."

Such a bomb-shell to drop. Just how many more did the mortal have in his arsenal to be flinging his information around like that? Not giving away that the mortal had surprised him once again, Alucard smirked. "I have never told you who my Master is."

"It is not difficult to find out who the latest Hellsing heir is."

The mortal was clever, and that was hilarious. Throwing his head back, Alucard guffawed. "For a mere human, you are quite amusing. How many dark creatures are there outside?"

* * *

Methos made a show of concentrating for nearly a minute before he retorted in a slightly questioning tone, "Three Fledglings and five Ghouls for certain, possibly more."

The huge amount of dark magic sitting right next to him made it almost impossible to get an accurate reading of the situation outside, but he was pretty sure that there was at least one more fledgling and two more Ghouls than what he had mentioned. Having a large, ancient Quickening could be quite an advantage in such situations, and Methos' experience made such endeavors quite accurate. Nobody had said though that he had to tell the truth.

He carefully watched Red-Coat take another appreciative sip while studying him, giving no indication what he thought about Methos' fake guess. Methos' nerves were so tightly strung that they could serve as tight-ropes. This was a critical point in their negotiations, and Methos was struggling to keep the vampire unbalanced enough that he was vaguely interested but didn't feel threatened.

Vampires, especially the older ones, were utterly unpredictable. They thought of humans as cattle, indulging them on a whim, and killing them equally as fast. And amusing a vampire was not always the safest thing to do. Neither was being interesting – they tended to poke and prod anything that caught their attention, until it either broke or revealed its secrets. Of course, threatening such an old one was pure suicide. As soon as there was a possibility to vanish, he'd take it hands down.

Red-Coat licked his lips sensuously, giving Methos a predatory look. "You mentioned something about your kind turning unhealthy when unwilling?"

Now, it all hinged on how well he had read the vampire. Red-Coat didn't think he could actually become dangerous, and Methos was about to spring something big on him. Those old ones thought they had seen it all, and they didn't react well to surprises. He had to make sure that he didn't seem a threat to the vampire, but not someone to be reduced to food, either. It was a dangerous balance where a step in the wrong direction could mean his death.

Concentrating on a non-threatening expression, Methos palmed his dagger once again. "I'll need you to give me access to a little bit of your skin."

Red-Coat went completely still, his whole body poised for an attack that would be so fast that Methos would have no chance of retaliation. He did not dare move a muscle lest he provoked an assault. The vampire's eyes were feral, and gradually, a manic grin rose on his thin, bloodless lips. The dim lighting in the pub threw shadows onto a skull that was only thinly veiled by a translucent stretch of papery skin. There was no doubt left that Red-Coat wasn't a living, breathing human being.

Slowly, with the tension rising every second, the vampire pulled up his sleeve. With bared teeth, Red-Coat extended his arm towards Methos. "Careful mortal, or I might not like you very much anymore."

But apparently, he had managed to keep the vampire's curiosity. Exhaling slowly he moved his own palm above the offered wrist. Keeping his movements as slow and fluid as possible, Methos pricked himself and squeezed a drop of blood to fall onto the small patch of bare skin.

This time, he charged as much of his Quickening into the liquid as he could. When the drop touched skin, a faint sizzle was heard for a few seconds, and the vampire watched with considerable interest how a patch of his skin around the liquid darkened like exposed film. A small part of Methos had to admire the vampire's complete control over the pain he undoubtedly had to feel, but most of his attention was focused on the vampire's reaction.

After the sizzling had stopped, Red-Coat carefully sniffed the little droplet and finally licked it up to reveal more burned skin beneath.

Slowly the vampire nodded. "Yes, I see how that could be considered unhealthy by some. Very interesting phenomenon. Why do you seek protection against my kind if you have a weapon like this?"

"I am quite fond of my blood where it is. The enthusiasm of your kind can go overboard sometimes when enraged, and I am quite averse to dying or being dismembered. Having a few fried fledglings next to my corpse would be somewhat counter-productive to my continued survival."

The fact that he wouldn't stay dead for long unless decapitated was none of the vampire's business, and he would rather take his own head than tell Red-Coat that one simply had to let forcibly drawn blood rest for a few hours, and then it would be perfectly drinkable fare.

Tensions between them were still high, but they had relaxed to non-lethal levels. Draining the last of his beer, Methos set the empty glass back onto the counter, always keeping an eye on the vampire. He could see how Red-Coat was turning the information over and over in his mind, poking it from all sides to find any weak spots.

They had reached a stalemate, Methos not having anything else he was willing to reveal to the vampire, and the vampire still not quite certain what to make of Methos and his offer.

Finally, Methos decided that it was high time to take his luck with a few fledglings instead of staying in the company of the Dark Arts master. He should have given enough information to keep Red-Coat from chasing after him for his blood, and this one didn't seem like the type to kill humans simply for sport. Or the sigil prevented him from doing so. What ever the reason, he was almost certain that he would be allowed to escape. And since his readings had been accurate so far…

Looking at the vampire, he smiled. "Would you excuse me for a while? I feel my mortal needs calling."

It was high time he moved out of London, anyways.

* * *

Alucard lidded his eyes to half-mast, chuckling deep in his throat. "One thing I definitely do not miss. What an untimely interruption."

He studied the slender form of the mortal striding to the bathroom, and took an absent sip from his drink. From the looks of it, that long trench coat was not solely because of cold weather, but also to conceal something long and heavy. Judging by the smell of steel and oil surrounding it, it should be some kind of sword. And there also had been a gun somewhere, and several other smaller blades. And – pepper? A very curious choice of armament that made him wonder if the mortal didn't hunt something of his own.

Chuckling manically, he realized that the mortal would not be coming back from the bathroom break, taking the chance to escape. Did he really think he could fool a vampire?

Well, if Alucard wanted to, it would be an easy feat to track down the mortal, but for tonight, he would let it slide. The mortal's blood was exquisite, and the puzzle it provided was on the same par. Very nice idea to use a vampire's sustenance against them. Perhaps one of Ischariot's prototypes for new Regenerators? But then why would he ask for help against a few powerless Freaks?

He had already planned on slaughtering that vermin loitering outside before the mortal had provided an interesting distraction with his games. Tracking the movements outside with his senses, he was quite sure the mortal had slipped away unnoticed since all four of the Freaks and the seven Ghouls were still there, waiting for him to come out.

Downing the rest of his Bloody Mary, he picked up his glasses. He could interrogate the swordsman another time. Now, it was time for some fun.

Fin - Sequel Six Thousand Years on a Plane

* * *

**A/N:**

Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did while writing it. It would be really great if you could tell me whether I've managed to keep those two in character – writing a believable Alucard is _hard_, I tell you! Until the next story!

Sakiku


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